


The Back of Your Mind

by swiftishere



Category: Mystery Skulls Animated
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Immediately Post-Cave (Mystery Skulls Animated), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Calls, Post-Cave (Mystery Skulls Animated), Voicemail, lewis built a whole ass mansion for the drama. let's talk about that, no memory loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24294112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swiftishere/pseuds/swiftishere
Summary: The phone was one of the first things he conjured, made in the middle of the night after he died, when the house was nothing more than a single room created because he felt too exposed just sitting out in the woods.He hadn’t realized it wouldwork.Now, as he builds out the house he’s made and with it, a plan, he’s haunted by people trying to reach out to him. Some voices are better than others.
Relationships: Arthur & Lewis (Mystery Skulls Animated), Lewis & Vivi (Mystery Skulls Animated)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 141





	1. Summoning

**Author's Note:**

> this is SUPER old but i went back to it recently and still really like how it flows so im just gonna... throw it out into the ether. who knows if ill continue it? sure not me!

The phone was one of the first things he conjured, made in the middle of the night after he died, when the house was nothing more than a single room created because he felt too exposed just sitting out in the woods. Throughout that night, in a fit of anxiety and needing something to occupy himself with, he'd turned the bare wooden box into something resembling a living room. It was warm reds and golds and browns, lit by lamps and fake candles, with a nice comfy couch big enough to kick his legs out on and still be supported. It barely didn't count as a bed, if he was being honest. Next to it was an end table upon which, after some deliberation, he'd placed a phone. It kind of looked like an old rotary phone, and kind of like a modern home phone. Definitely not because he forgot what a phone was supposed to look like halfway through making it. The cord went nowhere, disappearing in the darkness under the couch.

He hadn't realized it would _work_.

* * *

The first call was from Vivi, around maybe four in the morning. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he was certain it was her. He'd let it go to voicemail. Later he'd call back, he promised himself, after he got his thoughts in order and wasn't jumping at shadows. When he knew how to explain the... situation.

" _Lewis_ ," was the first thing she said. Soft and gentle, it melted his heart and he could feel himself relax just hearing her voice. " _You need to come home. I don't know where you are, or what you're doing, but-_ " she paused, taking a few deep breaths. " _...if you need a ride back to Tempo, give me a call and I'll come pick you up, but_ **_seriously_** _, you need to come home. S-something... happened, I- you probably already know but-_ " there was a pause, and he could her her breathing becoming more strained now, like she was barely not crying. " _I need- Lewis, I- I need you to be_ **_okay_** _, okay? So please... just come home._ " Then there was the _click_ of her hanging up, and the room was silent again.

His fingers brush his locket, reaching for her picture inside. What _happened_? It... it wasn't _him_ , right? _No_ , it couldn't have been, because she was calling him. So... it was something else. And she needed his help.

He got up from the couch and started to move to float through the wall – he hadn't made a proper door yet – but stopped, fear seizing him again. _She still didn't know_ , and he'd probably just make things worse, showing up as a ghost. And he really, _really_ didn't know how to explain that in a way that wasn't going to freak her out even more.

So he floated back and sat down on the couch again. _It's for the best_ , he insisted to himself.

Finally giving in, at a loss for what else to do, he pulls the heart off his chest and clicks it open. Inside he’s faced with a familiar picture: him, Vivi, Arthur, and Mystery, all smiling at the camera, his arms wrapped around the two other humans in a soft half-hug. All happy and alive and content, together. 

He realizes suddenly that he feels deeply, hopelessly lost.

* * *

The second and third calls were from Vivi as well, but those were made after he'd dismissed the room, so he'd missed them in the moment. It wasn't until he summoned the construction again, a few days later, that he could receive calls, and noticed the voicemail message flashing on the phone.

He had played the first one sitting on the couch. It was dated to the day after he'd died. The day after her first call.

" _Lewis_?" said Vivi's voice. " _It's- I don't really know how clear my original message was, I was... really tired when I called. I- my point is, you need to come back home as soon as possible, or at least call me back. I..._ " she trails off and sighs heavily into the receiver. When she starts speaking again, it's soft and quiet. " _...look, I'm sure you'll feel really guilty when you finally get around to hearing these. It's alright. I just want to know you're okay, I can't have..._ " again she stops talking, and Lewis can practically see her running a hand through her hair. " _Anyway. Call me back, love you, bye_."

He can't sit on the couch anymore. He rises and starts pacing the room. Its confines feel less secure now, more claustrophobic. Just like how it'd appeared out of nothing when he first created it, the room starts expanding to his comfort, and he finds he can direct it. He's grateful for the distraction when the second message starts playing. This one was made a day later, or the day before today.

For a few moments, it's just the sound of Vivi breathing. Slow and deep. " _...I keep telling myself you're out of cell range_ ," is the first thing she says when she finally starts talking. " _Because... we were, at the cave. I didn't realize it until... um, anyway, that's why you're not responding to my calls. And it's taking you a while to walk back. That's why you haven't shown up yet, and we haven't heard from you... we were a ways out. But..._ "

Lewis stares at the phone for a moment, then looks quickly away and back to the second room he's making.

" _...it's been two days now, Lewis. I... might be starting to doubt myself a little. If I could drive back and look for you I would, but... well, I kind of need to stay here right now. So please, just- come prove me wrong. As soon as you can._ "

In the other room, the one freshly made and still bare, Lewis sighs. He _can't_. It's not the right time yet, she's still recovering from... whatever happened after he died. For a moment he marvels at the fact that even in this other room, he could hear the phone perfectly.

* * *

Not only does the phone work, but as Lewis quickly finds out, it's audible from anywhere in the house. At first that's a blessing – he can replay Vivi's messages when he needs a voice with him, and keep busy in other areas of the house while he does. He redoes the original living room to match his new black-and-pink color scheme. Vivi calls a couple more times, at first still daily, then slowly less and less. Each time she sounds more worried, but doggedly keeps her hopes up that he's okay. She keeps referencing the thing she mentioned in her original message, the 'something' that happened that scared her so bad the first night, but never quite explains what it is. He's pretty sure it landed someone in the hospital, because in one message she mentioned she was calling from there. He so desperately wants to go to her, to check on her and make sure she's not the one hurt, but he _can't_. Not because he's scared... just – he's _dead_. It'll be too much at once, another source of stress on top of... whatever happened.

Four days pass before the call he's been dreading. Once again, he knows the caller instinctively. It's his mother.

" _Lewis_?" she says, and _god,_ she sounds so _worried_. It almost makes him rush to the phone and pick it up, say _yes, it's me, I'm here,_ but he restrains himself. The only thing that would be worse than Vivi finding out he's dead, is his family finding out.

" _Your friend Vivi keeps saying you're fine, but it's been a while now and you haven't shown up. I... I'm calling you once, okay? If you don't respond, I'm calling Search and Rescue._ " There's a beat. " _...I don't want to. I want to believe her, that you're fine. You're worrying her too, you know, I'm sure she's already called you about it. Do you know...?_ " Lewis is _sure_ , not through some ghostly premonition but because he knows his family, that she's now referring to the same incident Vivi's been talking around. Something people are afraid to say out loud, apparently. " _I'm sure you must, but... I hope you don't, too. That means you... ah, well, you escaped._ "

What the _hell_ does _escaped_ mean? He definitely didn't _escape_ anything that night.

" _...well, I suppose I'll find out soon enough. Either you call me back, or we come find you._ " That's the end of the message.

...He should probably move before SAR comes in and finds a _whole house_ that isn't supposed to be there.

* * *

He moves quickly, not wanting to stay out in the open for too long. The second he's sure he's far enough away, he reconstructs the house. It barely takes any effort now. With even more space to work, he starts expanding the building out more. It becomes almost like cooking, a way to while away the hours and have something tangible to show for it at the end.

He starts to actually plan out the building. Only in his head, of course – there's no point in conjuring a paper and pencil just to write down ideas on. He can remember everything fine.

It has three wings, a U shape enclosing a garden. None of it has a defined purpose yet, it's mostly empty rooms with a few decorated ones scattered in between. The living room is the base of the house, but it ends up being situated near the back of one wing, as he wants to leave the front rooms for something grander. He can't resist throwing in a sweeping staircase and chandelier right by the entrance. Whatever ends up going here, one thing's for sure – it's going to be fancy as heck.

He's admiring his handiwork late one night when the phone rings. This number is new. Unfamiliar, or so he tries to tell himself, even though he has the same gut feeling he's had about every other caller. He's too far away from the phone to hang up before it goes to voicemail, and then... well, then he couldn't avoid hearing it if he wanted to. The voice on the phone is _everywhere_.

" _Lewisss_ ," it says, in a tone that makes him shudder. It's a _drawl_ , stretching out the _s_ in particular. He's become accustomed to voices that sound worried or... whatever, not one this _calm_. He still wants to be wrong about who's calling. He really doesn't want to hear from, of all people, _Arthur_.

There's an unidentifiable rustling sound, and when he speaks again his voice has taken on a bit of a whining quality, as well as being riddled with grammatical errors. " _Lewiss, where y'_ **_are_ **_you? Y-y-you're really makin’ everyone r-real worried, y'know. Why haven' y-you won’ c-come back b-by now?_ " Despite not sounding in the least bit scared, Arthur's having a lot of trouble with his stammer, which is unusual. It only really acts up when he's frightened or... oh. Or half-asleep or otherwise not totally lucid.

He can't decide if that's better or worse.

" _Lewisss, y-you're ss-s-scaring everyone. Vivi keep ch-checkin' on her phone, sh-she keepss s-sayin’ it’ll probably gonna be a while b-before you’re come back, but I- I don’t- think- sh-she’s ssstill worried, an- an' everyone thinkin’s s-sssomethin' b-b-_ ** _bad_ **_happened to y- t-to us! E... even yer parents came to s-s-see me, th- wantin' to ask ab-bout you._ " Oh, he's mocking him, he’s getting kind of hard to decipher but he _has_ to be. " _Thought... th-thought you'd pick up f-fo-f- for me... that wasss d-dumb... oh shit_." There's a faraway noise, and then the line is silent for a moment. " _...I gotta go, they'll get m-m-mad if they find know I'm up... bye, Lewie_."

The choice of nickname makes Lewis furious. It was one Arthur had only ever used when he was _really_ out of it, when 's' sounds got too hard for him to have to say consistently. More than a simple nickname, it was a way of asking him for help without having to ask directly. For him to use it as the sign-off after taunting him about his family... it was salt in a very deep wound.

That did it. His death wasn't an accident, it's something Arthur can _gloat_ about.

Which means it was probably premeditated.

Which means he might do it again.

Unless Lewis stops him, that is.


	2. Construction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans begin to form, and Lewis needs a place to hold them. And so, a sprawling, deadly mansion is created. 
> 
> The new purpose doesn't stop the phone, though.

The plan comes together slowly, but it's not too hard to devise. _Start from the goal and work backwards_ , he reminds himself. He needs to stop Arthur, and make sure Vivi and Mystery are safe while he does so. The only way he can do _that_ is to have them all in one place where he can keep an eye on them, somewhere he knows he can keep them all separate and safe.

Like this house he's making – it's so perfect, he's sort of impressed with himself. There's no better way he can think of to lure everyone here than build them a haunted mansion. And once they're in here, he'll have total control over the environment. Separating the group should be a cakewalk. He'll take Arthur down into the basement, leaving the others to wander at their leisure, and maybe do a little lecturing before he actually...

Before Arthur is taken care of.

Start from the goal and work backwards.

The mansion is carefully designed to be scary but intriguing. It's a haunted house, meant to terrify and trap its eventual victim, and Lewis knows a _lot_ about haunted houses. Every decoration he puts in, while also chosen to add to the style, serves a function; paintings are gifted life to lean out of the walls, suits of ornamental armor and weapons activate on approach to start swinging, every torch and every light is linked directly to his control so _he_ decides who gets to see and what is left in the dark. The hallways twist on themselves, a non-Euclidean space conjured by his magic, carefully steering any visitors, no matter where they run, towards the same long drop.

The careful planning eats up a few weeks or so, peppered with occasional calls from Vivi and a few, unfortunately, from Arthur. Vivi's calls get sparser and sparser as time goes on, and he finds himself having to replay the old ones more and more, but at least they're consistent. Arthur, on the other hand, is much more sporadic. He'll go dead silent for days and then call him three times in a row, and he hasn't once been lucid enough to make any actual sense. When those calls happen, Lewis throws himself into the work harder than usual. Because hearing from his murderer ignites a new passion for revenge in him. And... because he _desperately_ doesn't want to listen to them.

He saves the end of the road for last. It's designed to mimic the scene of his death, cold and dark and solitary, but ironically that's exactly what makes him put it off. He tries not to admit it to himself, tries not to _give in_ , but the space unnerves him already, even bare as it is. So he stalls for as long as he can.

Eventually he runs out of _necessary_ things to do, and he knows he needs to face the tiny stone room he's set up. But Vivi calls just as he's about to start.

_"I don't even know why I bother anymore_ ," she mumbles into the phone. _"Search and Rescue is... about to give up on you, I think. I thought maybe I'd, I don't know, give you a heads-up. Not that you can hear it. Maybe they'll hear your phone ringing and that'll tell them where you are._ " She sighs. " _They're... saying you disappeared under perilous circumstances or... something like that. I... I'm not... I don't think they were ever expecting to find much. I- I'm sure you'll show up, though. Sooner or later."_

He stops, hand hovering just over the latch. She doesn't _sound_ sure. She sounds beaten-down and exhausted, like she's been running on fumes for days and is moments away from crashing, clinging to the last shreds of her hope.

And she's not going anywhere anytime soon, from the sound of it. Maybe... he doesn't have to start on this part _yet?_ He has plenty of time, right?

_"I don't want to keep waiting,"_ Vivi's voice comes back while he stands indecisive. _"I want to lay down-_ ** _with_** _you, see your face again, have you... here. And safe. And okay."_ Her voice breaks on the last word, breath shaking with almost-silent tears.

When... he finally does it, enacts his plan... he's sure she'll want somewhere to lie down. She desperately needs a rest, from the sound of it, and after learning _everything_ about what happened in the cave, it'll only be worse. But right now his mansion, while expertly designed for trapping his prey, doesn't exactly have anywhere to _do_ that.

He'll build her a bedroom.

As he flits up to the second floor of the west wing, he barely hears her parting message. _"Love you, Lewis. Please come home soon. Bye."_

White and blue is a serious diversion from the rest of the house, but he can't help it. He's always had a vision for this room, for almost as long as he's known Vivi, and he can't bear to change it now. He thinks about even changing the color of the walls, but decides against it.

Vivi's room is tailored to her in every way he can make it. A bunk bed, the bottom part a desk with a built-in bookshelf. The books there are empty, but they have a reason to be – they're notebooks, with ornate covers and bookmark ribbons, meant to be filled up with thoughts and art and notes by their owner.

_An owner_ , he thinks once, holding one in his hands, _that is never going to use them_.

He tries not to stray over to the desk after that.

There's no space for a window, the room not bordered on any side by an exterior wall. Vivi will probably be spending more time in the living room or kitchen anyway, somewhere where she can relax with company and call to people when she can't remember a word or just to chat for a –

_No_. Vivi won't be spending time _anywhere_. She will sleep in this room for a few hours and then he'll dismiss the whole mansion, because it's barely anything more than a glorified rat trap and it doesn't _matter_ that he's dreamed of putting this room together with her for years, it _doesn't_.

He spends as much time detailing as he can, but it still feels like the room is completed too quickly. There's nothing else to put it off, nowhere else to run to, that would serve an actual _purpose_ , so he resigns himself to the fact that he's going to have to do the dungeon now.

And then his mother calls.

It starts with a sigh. _"I know I said I wouldn't call this number again, but... I just wanted to hear your voice one last time."_ A pause. _"Search and Rescue gave up- they... declared you dead today. Said they would have looked longer, but, well, with everything else they'd found... I honestly don't know what else I can do, so... we're going to set up a wake for you. We're going to give you a while before we actually start, but I know you're probably..."_

She trails off and then starts crying.

Lewis's heart twists. He _hates_ this, hates having to listen to his _mother cry_ and not being able to do _anything_ \- he curls his hands into fists, he _can't_ respond, he _can't_.

He hears his father's voice, indistinct. There's a brief moment of conversation... and then he starts crying as well. He can't do this, he doesn't _want_ to listen, but he can't hang up and let them know someone's on the other end of the line, so he just sits on the floor with his hands over where his ears used to be, and waits it out.

Eventually it ends.

_"How did the girls take it?"_ his mother asks, her voice more distant than before. They've probably forgotten the phone is still on, he realizes.

_"They... didn't really understand,"_ his father's voice responds. _"I think they still think he's coming home. Especially after what Vivi said..."_

A sigh, he's not sure who from. _"God, they're too young for this."_

_"So is he. He came so far, just to..."_ This time it's his father who breaks first. The distant crying is over quicker, thank _goodness_.

_"Did you tell anyone else yet?"_

A brief silence, filled with some nonverbal gesture he isn't privy to. _"You told Vivi, right?"_

_"Yes, that's it. I think she may have told someone else, though- oh, my phone's still on!"_

And he's abruptly plunged into silence again. It feels like he's been dropped into cold water.

He wonders if maybe he could send some sign that he wasn't dead... but that would be a lie, wouldn't it? They should be mourning him anyway. He'll just have to make it up to everyone after...

After his plan is enacted and he's made everything safe again. Then he'll reunite with everyone, maybe he'll even show them – but he shakes his head. He can't show them the mansion. It's not even real. It's a _lair_ , a trap waiting to be sprung. A place with no purpose, other than... other than the one he's working on right now. After that, he may as well just dismiss it.

No more bluffing, no more excuses. He just admits it to himself. He _can't_ face that cold, cramped, dark final room right now. Later, when the stinging memories of his family and his death aren't so fresh in his mind, but right now he can't bear to even approach it.

He finds other things in the house to build, other rooms to decorate. Starting with the other rooms on Vivi's floor - his bedroom first, a plan so familiar he barely needs to think about it, taking less than a day to complete. One wall is left bare - he tries to cover it with a few different paintings, but nothing he tries feels quite right. In every iteration of this room he's had in his head, the quilt his mother made him when he was little would have hung there. The one that had said, without words, _you're family now_.

But he doesn't _have_ that quilt, and he can't recreate it, so it hangs empty for now.

At the end of the hallway goes a bathroom, and that absorbs another day as he dresses it up, filling it with every over-the-top, self-indulgent feature he can think of. The nice thing about a house like this is that he doesn't have to worry about space, or practicality, or making the wrong choice with something. Nothing is permanent here.

The fourth and last room in the hall sits completely empty. It's the only undecorated room on the floor, but the thought of putting anything in it makes Lewis's nonexistent stomach turn. He _knows_ what's supposed to go in that room. But even in this fantasy version of his life, he can't stomach the thought of including _him_ anywhere. And yet whenever he attempts to put something else in, to overwrite its _purpose_ , everything ends up being destroyed in a burst of frustrated purple fire a few hours after he starts. He can't even get rid of it altogether – the layout of this floor refuses to change now.

He boards over the door. Then changes the boards to chains. The gesture is meaningless, but it makes him feel better. Kind of.

Eventually he just turns his attention elsewhere.

The second floor of the west wing is taken up by guest rooms. Or that's what they're supposed to be, anyway. They'll never be used, but it's the intent that matters.

With no personal touches to these, decorating them becomes more rote. Not that it isn't still enjoyable – it's actually kind of nice to not have to fuss over every detail like he's been doing. He makes up a few arrangements that he likes and repeats them, varying the patterns between each other so it doesn't feel like the rooms are just copy-and-pasted over and over. 

The semi-mindless nature of them, though, means there’s less to distract him when the next call comes. 

The phone rings, and when it goes to voicemail there's a few moments of silence, enough to make Lewis wonder if Arthur has hung up without saying anything. But then he hears something that kills that thought, replacing it with a chill that runs through his entire body.

A _laugh_. It starts off so quiet as to be almost inaudible, then slowly grows louder. It doesn't sound mocking, or anything like that, but it does sound sort of... _hysterical_. Desperate, like he's only laughing because he doesn't know what else to do. And sure enough, after a while the howling laughter starts to degrade into sobs accompanied by a soft whine. Arthur's never really been much for _sobbing_ – when he does cry, it's almost soundless most of the time – but Lewis can't imagine what's got him so upset now.

" _You c-can't be_ ," says Arthur eventually. " _Y-you... I just talked t-to you! J-just heard y... y- I- I..._ " another couple seconds of crying, quieter now. Lewis is almost tempted to count how long it takes him to talk again. " _V-Vi-vi-vi said you w-w-weren't... d-didn't... I know sh-she's right, b-but I still..._ " His soft, mumbled speech is almost indecipherable now. There’s a faraway noise that might be a voice, and then Arthur’s voice doesn’t get louder so much as it pitches up. “ _No! N-n- no, c-can't be h- you can’t be y-you’re not tell them you’re not- p-please, Lewie,_ _please... kn-know you’re n... not, not d-_ ** _dead_** _, not dead not d-de-d- you_ **_can’t be_** _!”_

A moment of strained breathing, and then he continues at a quicker, almost frantic pace. _"Vi-vi-vi s-s-said you weren't dead s-so you can't be- can't be dead I know sh-she's right but I- we- we're all st-st-still worried! S-so come- s- come_ ** _home!_** _"_ He trails off into tears again.

If he hangs up, will Arthur even notice? Because he _wants_ to, because a horror and dread is gripping his soul so tight he can physically feel his anchor sinking. Why is he denying it so violently? Barely conscious, too delirious to know that the voicemail he heard isn't really Lewis, and he's still crying, hysterical at the very _thought_ that he might be dead. But he knows, he _has_ to know it's true, because he's the one who _did it!_ And before, in that taunting earlier call of his...

Unless... he was being sincere then? He really was just trying to tell him that he, and _everyone_ , was worried?

But he killed him.

But- he would never have hurt him.

There's someone talking to Arthur now, a distant, muffled voice, and it sounds like the phone's being covered by something. There's a shuffling, and then quiet for a moment save for shaky breathing.

_"...I love you,"_ Arthur says, and it's the most lucid he's sounded in weeks. _"An- I d-don't_ ** _care_** _\- wh- th-that every- everyone else... th-thinks... is giving_ ** _up_** _on you. I_ ** _won't_** _. I pr-pr-promise."_

The line goes dead, and Lewis kneels on the floor and cries. He feels like he's being torn in half. He remembers the moment of his death so clearly, it's replaying in his head, that sick smile as his long-time friend killed him in cold blood- but now the memory feels _wrong_. He rejects it harder than he ever has before, because _that_ is Arthur- the person on the phone, crying over him, promising to not give up until he comes home- and Arthur would never, _ever_ do this to him.

He doesn't know what to do anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: there's a director's cut of this chapter that includes less action and WAY more interior design. which i might post as a separate thing. maybe.


	3. Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are shifting. At a loss for what to do, and with a temporary reprieve from the haunting phone calls, Lewis creates two more things. One last room for his house. And a companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or; Lewis Is Having A Bad Time

Lewis had thought he was done with the house, more or less. But now he finds himself drifting towards one particular room, one that he'd previously intended to leave empty. For a moment he hovers in front of the door. Building his courage, maybe, or making up his mind.

With a swipe of his hand, the chains vanish, melting into pink flames and drifting away. The door opens slowly and soundlessly, revealing bare wood unlit by anything except for the light leaking in from the hallway. He drifts in, and takes a deep breath.

The other rooms he's sculpted have been from further away, most objects created already in their place without him really touching him. But for some reason, he feels like being more attentive to detail here. He puts down the bare-bones of the furniture, and then sculpts the details slowly with his own hands, cloth patterns and wood markings laid in with careful thought.

The work is meditative. Focusing so much on exactly _how_ it all looks helps him take his mind off _other_ things. Off the calls he's received, the people who are missing him, the grim work the rest of his mansion needs to do - off whether that work _should_ be done at all.

And he _has_ to make sure it's right, more than Vivi's or his rooms had to be. Because this room is for Arthur, and Arthur finds comfort mostly in the familiar. He can't give him a room that's cozy but completely devoid of context, and expect him to feel anywhere near at home.

For the first time since he died, since this whole plan began, Lewis stops fighting himself and just lets himself care about that. About _him_. He doesn't know anymore what he's _supposed_ to feel, so he just does what feels right. And murderer or no- and he isn't even sure of _that_ anymore- Arthur cried over him, and refused to give up on him, so he'll return that sentiment, and try to make sure he's comfortable ( ~~in a room he may not even see~~ ).

So he tries to recreate, as best he can, Arthur's room at Lance's house. He can't get it perfect, because he's working from memory, but he's spent enough time hanging out in there that he remembers most of the details, and a lot of the little decorations were things _he got him_ in the first place, so all in all he thinks he's doing a pretty good job of it.

The worry that teases at the back of his mind, the one he's trying not to think about, is that this won't actually _mean_ anything to him. That he was only pretending to like all the things he kept in his room, the stuffed animals and trinkets that _reminded me of you-_ but he can't focus on that. He has to believe he was telling the truth all that time, or he might just fall apart.

He'd thought that making this room might help somehow, might alleviate some of the conflicted feelings inside him and help him _think_ , but by the time he's done he just feels more alone than ever. Surrounded by replicas of all the gifts he's given Arthur over the years - artifacts of sentimental value, each attached to a memory and a feeling, _I hope you like this, I hope you know I like you_ \- he doesn't feel comforted at all. Just resentful - he doesn't deserve this, _he_ doesn't deserve all _this_ , not all this work for someone who _threw him away_ \- and at the same time, a deep longing for it to be _real_ , to have the _real_ Arthur here with him. _He'd_ know what to do, he'd find just the right words to reassure him, to explain _everything_ -

How ironic. His murderer, and the first person he wishes for to comfort him.

Not for the first time that day, he sits down and cries. This time it's on the bed that isn't his, curled up with his knees to his chest like a child, desperately trying and miserably failing not to _keep thinking_ about _him_.

Lost in the conflicting feelings of hate and longing, he scarcely notices the gentle, warm pressure that slowly appears at his back. All he knows is he wants someone there _with him_ , and for a short while, there's a phantom sensation that almost makes it feel like there is.

Except once he's done crying - when the ink-black tears have finally stopped, and his emotions are starting to fade to something more manageable - the feeling doesn't go away.

He shifts, and it shifts in the opposite direction. Slowly, he turns around and comes face-to-face with a small creature that flickers gently like a candle flame.

At any other time, he'd probably yelp and jump back, in a manner unbefitting of a giant skeleton ghost. But he's too worn out for that kind of display now, so he just stares at it. It stares back.

Its body is the color of his magic, and indeed seems to be made of it - the raw fire that appears before he properly manifests something, or that melts and flickers away when he dismisses it. But here it's coalesced into one stable form, a display that shifts and glows in almost-imperceptible but mesmerizing patterns. From within shines a golden light to match his anchor, showing through in something that looks like eyes and a heart between two little nubs that might be arms. Despite the lack of much that could make an expression, it looks... sad, somehow.

Cautiously, he reaches out a hand. It responds with a sound somewhere between a meow and a coo, and gently nuzzles its head into his palm. The contact brings a warm feeling to his chest. A pale mimic of the feeling of holding a loved one close - but there.

He can't help but laugh softly, stroking its little head with his thumb. If he'd really been _that_ desperate for company... well, he's not complaining. The little thing doesn't quite feel _alive_ , more like... the ghost of a ghost, the faintest imprint of what might have been living, once. And yet it responds like a living thing, with a melodic purr that suggests it's enjoying being pet.

His mind wanders, as much as he tries to stop himself, towards more clinical thoughts about the little one. What would Vivi call it, if she were here? A half-living thing conjured by a ghost... in a mansion that's just another construct.

For a brief moment, the thought of Vivi warms his heart. He's sure she'd love to analyze this place he's made, to study _him_ and this new spirit. Maybe she'll get the chance to do that. He _hopes_ she'll get the chance.

But at the thought of her coming _here_ , his mood is ruined again. She and her friends, her fellow investigators - her and _Arthur_ \- venturing into the trap he's made. She'll be bringing him right to his death, coming here, and she'll have no idea.

The little spirit chimes again, a much more hesitant sound than before, and he looks back to see it floating cautiously towards him, its expression a mix between confusion and concern. He goes back to petting it, and can't help but sigh, at once comforted and more lost than ever.

* * *

The little ghostling he's created is shy, he realizes quickly. Or, maybe shy isn't exactly the right word - it likes to hide, and doesn't like to wander about. It's both sweet and strange, the way it darts to his side when it wants to see him, trying not to stay in the halls alone for any longer than necessary. When it isn't nestled in his collar or the palm of his hand, it likes to stay in Arthur's room, usually curled up on the bed or hiding under it.

He suspects that the little thing is more than just a simple construct, acting alive because he wants it to. It represents _something_ \- he just can't figure out what.

It thrums with an approximation of a heartbeat, keeping time with his locket, if he listens closely. It likes music - it's always pestering him to sing or play the violin, two things he honestly hadn't realized he was missing until he picked them back up. It's another bandaid, like the ghostling was, but it does make him feel temporarily better. Maybe that's the point.

A tiny half-ghost who likes music and won't stop bothering him. A deadbeat.

He can't remember the last time he genuinely laughed at anything.

* * *

It's a long while before anyone calls again. Lewis fills the space with violin, and some haphazard attempts at cooking with conjured ingredients, and playing with the deadbeat.

The next time someone does call, it's Arthur, and he _finally_ sounds lucid. He can't help but be a little relieved about that.

_"Hey, Lew_ ," he hums in a singsong voice, _"you're on sp-speaker, 'cause I can- I can't hold the ph-phone and work at the s-same time. Bu- but holy_ ** _fuck_** _am I bored, and I need s-some- someone to talk to. Hopefully you don't mind. Right?"_ A pause. _"Anyway. How- how are you, I'm_ ** _fine_** _..."_

He recognizes this tone of voice. One of the things Arthur does that used to make him nervous, before he figured out what it actually was. Snappy, derisive, only half present, it only appears when Arthur's mad at himself. For being upset over something, or not feeling well, usually.

_Maybe he's mad that you're not there to talk to, because he regrets killing you_ , suggests a small, weaselly part of his mind, which is quickly shoved to the back. He has no reason to believe that.

_"S- so- so, I'm not allowed to go outside, 'cause fuck me I- I guess, so I, uh, I- I am,_ " a shift, and then he sounds slightly further away, " _designing my- myself an arm."_

What? What does _any_ of that mean? Designing an _arm?_ Why is he not allowed to go _outside?_

_"Actually 's, uh, i' - i's not gonna be th-that hard, I- I don't th-think. 'Cause, uh, I already have the blue- b- the, uh, the blueprints mostly done, an' after th-th-that it's just ass- assembly, an'... got plenty of help with- with th-that. S-s-so, uh, it won't hold me up too- too long, okay? I... I'm..."_

He trails off, and there's a few shaky, struggling breaths. " _I'll f-f-find you, okay? I promise. I promise, I- I... hh- hah- I- I'm gonna come get you, and I- an- and I'll bring you home. You're gonna be okay, I..."_

His voice trembles, and he sounds more like he's trying to convince himself, and that just makes it _worse_. He can't believe this is anything but genuine - Arthur wants him back, so _desperately_ , and he doesn't even seem to know he's _gone_.

Arthur smiled as he watched him fall to his death.

Arthur has no idea he's dead.

The deadbeat nuzzles into his cheek, purring and staring at the phone with round, sad eyes.

There's a final, whispered _"I promise_ ," and then the line goes dead. Lewis's own thoughts are louder than ever.

Maybe Arthur's done something to get rid of his own memories of killing him, so wracked with grief in the aftermath. Maybe that's what hospitalized him for so long - and at that thought, a phantom pressure rises in his nonexistent throat.

Or - maybe it's not that. It doesn't have to be that, it doesn't have to be something he _did on purpose_ , hurting himself as penance. Maybe... maybe he's subconsciously suppressed the memories of the cave.

Or maybe it's neither of those. Vivi doesn't know what happened to him either, maybe Mystery... maybe he...

...No. No, Mystery wouldn't have done something like this; he has poor judgement but it isn't _that_ bad.

He hates every answer he's come up with, and none of them feel right.

When Arthur comes to find him... _if_ Arthur comes to find him, he can get his answers then. There must be answers there, with _someone_.


End file.
